


Solicitation

by Dassandre



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Fast Cars, Just done, Kinks, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Exhaustion, Original Character(s), Prostitution, of a kind - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 22:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16228253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre
Summary: The DB11 is a brilliant drive, and Q takes advantage of the opportunity he had made for himself, driving aimlessly back toward the city centre.This is the best he’s felt in weeks, and though the tension in his shoulders eases with each mile and minute the car puts between him and Six, it doesn’t disappear altogether.  It will have to do, though.  What will truly banish the stress, rid him of the constant humming of thought in his mind and the strained pressure that hours spent bent over a workbench have put on his muscles isn’t … available to him.Until suddenly it might be.He’s lost track of how many times his cruising has taken him back and forth across the River and via which bridge, but it’s when he’s waiting for a traffic signal to change somewhere near Euston Station that Q spots him.Hello there.





	Solicitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [springbok7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/gifts), [Venstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venstar/gifts), [Rigel99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/gifts).



> This idea was suggested by the FB 00Q group months ago, but it's taken me this long to complete it. Hopefully, it was worth the wait.
> 
> Those to whom I have specifically gifted this work, thank you, my friends. Thank you for being you. For being an endless source of support and strength through a very long, very painful summer. Now that the snow is about to fall (at least in my neck of the woods), perhaps the change of seasons will bring us all a bit a comfort and peace. If not, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have at my side to take on the world.
> 
> Here's a bit of smut to lighten the load a tad.

Q doesn’t do this often.  Even less so since becoming Quartermaster — security risk, Tanner says; it also has a tendency to throw a few of the Double-Os into a bit of a tizzy when he wanders — and, these days, his diary is full with Branch meetings, personnel reviews, mission briefings, mission ops, and administrative conclaves of every known flavour that finding time for fast, easy relaxation is nigh on unheard of.  

Except tonight.

He’s had enough.

He’s done.

Tired and tense having been largely confined to his Branch and the labs for the last month, Q grabs the fob of the latest addition to the fleet from the lockbox, slides behind the wheel of the Divine Red DB11 -- apologies, Double-O Nine -- and spins out of the garage leaving behind a cloud of burnt rubber and a security detail scrambling to catch up.

They won’t.

Q settles himself into the deeply contoured, leather seat and glances at the settings on the enhanced digital display in front of him.  An aftermarket enhancement courtesy of Q-Branch R&D, the HUD’s system links with both satellite and CCTV data to -- among other things -- inform the driver of all traffic within a two mile radius.  Tonight’s: extremely light.

He opens her up.

Within minutes Q has left Six far behind, and with his latest app running perfectly on his mobile, the SMART blood nanites in Q’s system will be untraceable until he _wants_ to be found.

Essentially, _never_.

He is free.

Q feels the tech working around him:  smooth, responsive steering; a gentle pulse in the throttle; a subtle course correction as she drifts through a corner.  The vehicle has been engineered -- rather, _re_ -engineered -- for power-drifting, and the late-night, deserted streets south of London are just damp enough from the earlier rain to make it a bit of a challenge.  

Coming out of the corner and into a long straightaway, Q presses down on the accelerator and is serenaded by a heavenly chorus of power from the aft end of the vehicle.

Perfection wrapped around a 503 horsepower V8 engine.

He doesn’t tame the idiotic smile that splits his face as he speeds through the far reaches of the southern boroughs.  The apples of his cheeks practically brush the bottom curve of his spectacles.

A flash from the HUD has Q easing up on the pedal and bringing the car to a more sedate velocity.  The streets here are still largely deserted, but they’ve narrowed. Even at the slower speed, the DB11 is a brilliant drive, and Q takes advantage of the opportunity he had made for himself, driving aimlessly back toward the city centre.

This is the best he’s felt in weeks, and though the tension in his shoulders eases with each mile and minute the car puts between him and Six, it doesn’t disappear altogether.  

It will have to do, though.  What will truly banish the stress, rid him of the constant humming of thought in his mind and the strained pressure that hours spent bent over a workbench have put on his muscles isn’t … available to him.

Until suddenly it might be.

He’s lost track of how many times his cruising has taken him back and forth across the River and via which bridge, but it’s when he’s waiting for a traffic signal to change somewhere near Euston Station that Q spots him.  

 _Hello_ there.

Q’s hands stop their rhythmic tapping of the steering wheel. The beat of _Years and Years’_  ‘Real’ forgotten instantly.

Tall.  Blond. Older.  

Fit.  

 _Quite_ fit, in fact. He’s tossed the jacket of his navy suit over a forearm, and even in the dim light cast by the street lamps, the well-tailored white button-down leaves Q with little to imagine regarding the composition of those arms and chest and abdomen. But for all his bespoke appearance, this man is _not_ some dull banker or a mindless accountant out for a late night of fun with friends.

No.  He has a different skill set entirely.

Leant up smoking against the brick wall of a tailor’s shop near an alley, there’s something in the bloke’s posture that Q recognises:  an easy fluidity of confidence with just a touch of vigilance suggested in the tilt of his head …

Q groans aloud and drops his forehead to the steering wheel. He hasn’t had a proper seeing to since, well, _forever_ , and the man looks just his type of fun -- all brawn and no brains packed into a handsome, rakish, _solid_ cover.  

Q looks up. The man has turned slightly toward him. Solid jaw. Strong neck. And those fingers: long and thick and … dexterous, if the way he’s handling his cig is any indication.

They’ll do nicely.

The light changes and after an initial burst of speed to announce his presence and capture the man’s attention, Q slows and pulls for the kerb. He brings the Aston to a stop in front of the tailor’s shop and lowers his window.

The blond crushes his smoke against the brick behind him and approaches, all long limbs and lazy moves. He drapes his jacket over the door, through the open window, and bends down to peer inside. The plush interior of the car gets only a cursory glance, his green eyes roaming up and down Q’s figure, lingering on his crotch — which goes a bit tight at the appraisal — and eventually meeting his eyes.  

The man smirks.

“Nice car.”  His voice, a thrumming, suggestive baritone, fills the passenger cabin, wrapping itself sensuously around Q in a way even the leather of the seat does not.

Oh, yes.

This one’ll bugger his brains out.

“It is,” Q agrees with a twitch of his lips and a lingering assessment of his own. He pops the lock on the passenger door, nods toward it, and utters what are quite possibly the most ridiculous words he’ll ever say.

“Join me for a ride?”

 

~~**~~

 

He has a flat that’s not too far.

Of course, he does.

The fee is addressed before Q pulls away from the kerb.  They spend the first half of the drive to Islington discussing in detail what Q wants for the night.  

Yes.  For the _night_.  

The second half of the journey finds the man’s large hand teasing Q’s cock from outside his trousers and his lips sucking and biting at Q’s collarbone.  Only years spent developing a hyper-focus along with his astounding multitasking skills prevents Q from driving off the bridge on York Way into Regent’s Canal below.

The flat’s near the Almeida in a street that’s neither posh nor run down.  A neighbourhood for families to judge by the toys scattered about in the tiny front gardens of the terrace houses that line the street.  There’s a bloody CoE primary school nearby, for Pete’s sake. Domestic in the extreme. No one would suspect the place he’s entering -- sat above a pub -- is used for -- yes.  Well.

The opportunity for further analysis is gone once the door to the flat is secured:  Q is pushed up against it and skillfully divested of his green cardi, purple tie, and navy button down.  And when lips lick and tease at his chest and right nipple -- Oh, God! -- cognitive thought becomes highly overrated.

Then his two-tone capped derbys and cheerful socks are tossed down the short hallway toward the sitting room, and it’s the matter of a few zips and tugs before his checked trousers and pants -- trailed after by lips and hands -- join the mess on the floor.

He’s naked and aroused and growing more so by the second; every inch of him needs--

The man stands from Q’s feet, sliding his fully-clothed body along the length of Q’s. He’s a tad taller; his look heated when he stares down into Q’s spectacle-clad eyes.

“You’ve not said.  What do I call you?

“Do you have to call me anything?” Q can’t quite bring himself to look fully at him.  Not shy, never that, but everything’s already quite intense.

“I don’t.”  He runs the pad of his thumb along Q’s bottom lip.  “But I think you _want_ me to.”

He’s right.

Q thinks of his options and settles on the one that’s both the least and the most complicated.

“Ethan,” he sighs.

That much settled, the man’s other hand slides up from where it had been curled, stroking over the jut of Q’s narrow hip to his neck where those long fingers flex around his windpipe, suggestive but not threatening.  

Q presses into the hand at his throat.

“And what do you need to call _me_?”  The man rumbles in his ear.  

Not want. _Need_.

Q only just manages to suppress a whimper.

The fingers feel it nonetheless.

He _does_ need.

But the shaggy blond hair, wide green eyes, square jaw, and broad forehead in Q’s peripheral vision are nothing like _his_ , and Q supposes that’s part of what he needs. Part of the danger in saying what he _really_ wants.  

He shouldn’t think it; definitely shouldn’t _say_ it, but … fuck it all.  

Q tilts his head and stares at the man: a challenge.  Using the precise diction drilled into him since infancy so there is no mistaking his answer, he says the name clearly:

“James.”

The corner of the man’s lip tenses for a moment before it lifts knowingly -- as if he’s won … _something_ \-- and the fingers grip a bit more tightly at Q’s throat before easing up into his hair.  

The kiss that follows consumes, and Q thanks whatever powers there are in the universe that this one — this _James_ — kisses on the mouth.  He’s always found the press of talented lips and tongue against his intoxicating, and it’s been so bloody _long_ since …

Q gives himself up to it.

Powerful hands slip to his arse, kneading and spreading the flesh.  A fingertip brushes against his entrance once, twice, and then moves on: a promise for later.

“Chair or bed?” ‘James’ asks against his mouth.

“I paid handsomely for _you_ to make the sodding choices,” Q manages to get out between kisses, irritated at the question. It’s polite, yes, but he’s negotiated this:  he needs to submit tonight.

To not be the one making the decisions.  

For once.

Nothing too risky, though it’s a bit dangerous as it stands.   

His safe word:  segfault.

“Cheeky, little shite,” ‘James’ says, but he scoops Q up in his arms, strides down the through the sitting room and tosses him onto the bed at the back of the airy room.  Q’s perfectly capable of making his way there on his own ... maybe, but the move is so fucking hot -- okay, so he has a strength kink in addition to everything else -- he doesn’t consider protesting.

The kiss continues and James lies down on top of him, undulating slowly: the soft wool of his trousers an agonisingly sweet friction on Q’s half-hard cock.  His hands caress Q’s ribs, fingernails scraping the edges of his nipples -- a tease -- before sliding along his arms, pushing them toward the head of the massive king-sized bed.  He presses Q’s loosely curled hands open with his thumbs then wraps them around the rounded slats of the heavy mahogany frame.

“No restraints.  Only your will to keep them here.  And you _will_ keep them here, Ethan.”

Q’s nods loosely.  “Yes.”

James stops his slow grind, and Q knows his reply wasn’t enough.

“You chose it.  Use it. It’s that or ‘sir.’”

“Yes, James.”

“Just so.”  James nips at the tender flesh behind Q’s ear.  

“Oh, Christ!” Q groans and feels James smile against his neck.

“Perfect.  I want to hear everything, Ethan.  I will stop if I don’t. Tell me you understand, pet.”  Three nips along his collarbone punctuate the order, and Q’s hips buck hard against James in response.

“Oh, fuck!  Yes, I will … James.  Sir,” he pants. How this grew so intense so quickly.

Oh shite.

“Good boy.  Let’s see what trouble we can get into, shall we? ” James whispers with a final nip to his earlobe.

 

~~**~~  


Embarrassingly, like a cork off a bottle of bubbles, Q comes not fifteen minutes into it, and from nipple play of all things.  His cock touched only incidentally. Rather than chastise him or end their encounter prematurely, James smiles with self-satisfaction and uses his fingers to spread and rub Q’s still warm come into his belly like massage oil.  As he does, his thumbs anchor Q’s bollocks against the underside of his spent, but not yet flaccid, cock, thick pads caressing the sensitive flesh.

“Feels better now, yeah?”  James says, dipping his head to continue the sucking and biting torture of Q’s nipples that had caused his atypically vocal orgasm.  “Such a good boy, keeping your hands to yourself. Wasn’t easy, I know. You’re bloody gorgeous when you come. Needed to get the first one out of your system, though.  You were too tense. Last a bit longer now. Young thing you are.”

Between the caresses and words of praise, Q’s penis begins to fill again, far more quickly than is his norm, and he’s so caught up in the sensations James is dragging out of him that he fails to notice when one of James’ hands drifts from his flesh only to return a moment later.  “This will help, too,” he husks into Q’s ear as he secures a cock ring around him. Q arches his back and his thighs fall open in response, his sluttish moan resonates loudly through the room he’s been assured is soundproof. “That’s it, beautiful,” James says, running his hands along Q’s flanks.  “ _Now_ we can get started.”

Q’s last thought which isn’t a primal response is this:  while he had desperately wanted to be buggered, he’s starting to think he’s well and truly fucked, instead.    


~~**~~

 

Twenty minutes later, tears spill from Q’s eyes.

He is being punished.  

James gave Q permission to touch everything except his own cock, and Q had done ‘brilliantly, pet’ whilst James teased his prostate and sucked him off.  It was when James pulled away and turned for more lube that it happened.

He hadn’t meant to.  An aborted movement. Instinctual -- even James could see that given his sigh of disappointment -- but Q reaches for himself nonetheless, so he is now pinned on James’ lap, face toward the floor counting out his punishment.

He loses track twice, so the spanking starts anew.  James’ hand is tireless in its precision, and between the burn of his arse and the restriction of the ring, Q’s cock is harder than he ever remembers it being.  Q’s grunts of pain -- he will _not_ cry out -- have long since devolved to moans of need, and the only thing keeping him from rutting against James’ lap -- especially once James starts to swell beneath the flies of his trouser front -- is the iron-strong arm pressing into Q’s back, holding him in place.  With each hit James administers, Q feels the wool-covered penis rub against his abdomen, and the first word out of his mouth when the count _finally_ reaches its end is, “Please!”

“Please what?” James growls.  He is not best pleased by Q’s disobedience let alone his inattentiveness with the punishment, but he eases his grip on Q’s back, and Q immediately slides off James’ lap to his knees on the floor, clasps his hands behind his back, and bows his head, though he looks up at James from beneath his fringe.  He’s able to largely ignore the sting caused by his heels pressing into his abused arse but only because his need to taste James’s cock is stronger.

“Please, sir.  I wish to apologise.”  Q’s eyes flick from James’ face to his crotch so there’s no mistaking his intent.

James’ frown deepens, and the emotion in it hurts Q almost as much as the spanking did.  Somewhere along the way, this became about far more than a night of submission or pleasure.

James remains sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at him, but something eases in his hard, green eyes, and he unzips.  But though James pulls himself free, he does not strip out of his trousers. He remains, as he has been this entire time, fully clothed.

His cock is firm and flushed and leaking.  “You want this, do you?” He strokes it casually from base to tip, catches the drops of precum on his fingertips and uses them to lubricate his next stroke.

“Yes, James.  Please, sir.” Q rises on his knees and scoots forward.  He may be the Quartermaster of MI6, powerful in his own right, but he can’t help feeling a slight flush of pride that he has aroused this compelling man.

James grips Q’s hair with his free hand and pulls back sharply.  Q’s moan is not one of pain.

“I like a pet who knows when to make amends, but I have to question your motives, _Ethan_.”  Q flinches at the sound of his name and knows he needs to make this right.  Eyes trained on the ceiling, neck tingling uncomfortably from the tight grip in his hair, Q does not move when James rests the tip of his penis on the curve of his bottom lip.  A single, healthy drop of precum drips into Q’s open mouth: its saltiness an explosion of flavour on his tongue. His mouth waters. Lips purse reflexively. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales raggedly from the effort to quell the need to suckle.  

“Good boy.”  James’ praise eases some of the tension in Q’s shoulders.  His eyes open when the grip on his hair gentles slightly to become a tight caress.

“Your apology will come as _I_ want it, and I will not go easy on you.”  James slides a bit farther into Q’s mouth. Q keeps his mouth slack.  Permission to do anything else has not been given, and he will not disappoint this man again.    

“You will not touch.   _Anything_.”  The hand in his hair tightens further.  “If you do, I’ll consider it your safe word, and we are done for the night.  Blink twice if you want this.”

Q blinks.

“Then apologise.”  James pushes in with a growl.

  


~~**~~

 

Q atones.

He’s not brutal, this James, but with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, Q is completely at the mercy of the man whose fingers are locked in his hair.   The first thrusts are shallow, allowing Q the opportunity to adjust to the length and girth of James’ cock. It’s almost too big to sit easily in his mouth, and the warm, heavy flesh lays heavily on his tongue as he pulls and sucks on what he has been fed.  

He needs more.

James pushes deeper, granting what Q craves, but he gives too much and Q chokes.  He tries to pull back, coughing.

The hand in his hair is unyielding, the other a firm presence on his shoulder, but the pace recedes a bit.  Q pulls in quick gasps of air between the slower thrusts and soon is swallowing as much as he can again. He begins to suck enthusiastically.

James groans -- the first sound of his pleasure since this apology began  -- and starts to push purposefully into Q’s willing mouth. The thrusts are long and full at first, and the tip brushes along Q’s soft palate before nudging the back of his throat sharply, but as Q begins to bob his head in counterpoint with the thrusts, swirling his tongue along the solid flesh and letting his teeth graze a bit along the tender frenulum, the thrusts grow sharper and shorter.

James slides both hands into Q’s hair, holding his head immobile and he takes his pleasure.  

Q opens his mouth as wide as he can whilst still providing a degree of suction, closes his eyes, and lets his other senses fly free.

Q’s ears resonate with James’ groans and words of praise and beneath that, the wet slap of his mouth being taken.  James musk -- spicy and clean and raw -- wraps around Q like a heady fume of incense. James’ fingernails scrape at Q’s scalp and his chin tingles from the scratch of twill-woven Italian wool.   And the potent taste of that single drop of pre-cum had not prepared Q for the nectar that spreads across and along the sides of his tongue.

His throat closes rhythmically on James’ length and his arms fall loosely to his sides.  He no longer has any compulsion to touch unless James wills it so. Helpless yet secure in this man’s hands, he finally surrenders conscious thought.

Q soars.

 

~~**~~

 

James pulls back, but before Q -- caught up in the primal senses that have been washing over him -- can miss the feel of him in his mouth, he finds that he is no longer on his knees on the floor but face down on the mattress, thighs spread, ring removed, arse in the air, gripping the bars of the headboard as James pushes into him with one, long, powerful slide.

Their simultaneous groans fill the space between them.  

Though still loose from James’ earlier, aborted attentions, Q is tight enough that the exquisite burn partially rouses him from the haze of sensation he’s swimming in, and Q presses back until his arse is firmly seated on the condom-clad cock.  He flexes and readies himself for the first thrust when James grasps his hips in his huge hands.

“Freeze!”  Q feels the huff of breath that accompanies James’ warning against the tender skin behind his ear.  “I’ll stay here, like this, all night if I choose, Ethan. Filling your disobedient arse but not moving.  Not giving you a _centimetre_ of what you want … what you’re bloody gagging for.”  

He flexes the muscles in his abdomen and thighs and the action causes James’ cock to shift ever so slightly inside Q.

It’s the worst tease of the night.  

Q is unable to bite back a sob, nor the second that escapes when James brushes his fingertips across the crown of Q’s dripping cock before shoving them into Q’s mouth.  The tang of himself in contrast to that of James which still lingers on his palate has him moaning against the digits, but again, he has not been given permission.

His body begins to tremble, lean muscle twitching imperceptibly beneath his skin, with the effort of fighting against his instinct to suck and rut.  Sweat soaks the curls at his nape and pools in the cup of the small of his back.

His heart feels near to pushing out of his chest it is beating so quickly.

But Q does not move.  He understands.

“Good boy,” James growls in his ear, pulling his fingers free.  “You will not move. Your arse is mine to use in any way I see fit.  You will come from my cock or not at all.”

“No!”  Q’s eyes fly open but he doesn’t look over his shoulder at the other man.  “Please, sir. _James_.  I-I can’t ...”  Q knows his limits.  He’s never --

“Safewording?”

Q manages to shake his head.  He wants --

Deserves --

“Ethan.”

Another flex.

Q drops his head between his shoulders, sighs, and submits.  “Your cock, sir.”

‘James’ ends Ethan.

Q is reborn.

 

~~**~~

 

Strong arms wrap around him from behind and he is pulled close against a broad chest, tucked carefully into the warm embrace.  

He has been cleansed, sore muscles soothed with oil and skilful fingers.

His hazy, quiet mind is further calmed with gentle words of praise and appreciation.

He slowly opens his eyes, and the room still a blur around him without his glasses, widening this safe, restorative space he has found.

The arms tighten about him.  Secure.

He hums.

“Back with me?”

He nods and turns in the embrace to smile into the collarbone pressed against his lips.

“Home early.  How did you find me?”

The caressing fingers that had been idly rubbing the small of his back make their way up and down his spine.  

“You forgot to disable the Aston’s GPS.”

“Bugger me!” He had clearly been worse off than he’d realised if he missed so basic a countermeasure.  His curse is met with a chuckle and those fingers press teasingly at his sore bum.

“I did.”

He snorts.

“What is this place?”

“One of our safehouses.”

A finally bare leg slips over his, pinning Q to the comfortable mattress.

“Hmmm … ‘s nice safehouse.”

He doses for some minutes.  Lulled into still further comfort by the beating heart and steady breaths beneath his ear.

“So … _James_ , then?”

He stiffens.

“Now, none of that, love.”

He’s confused by the chuckle and opens his eyes again to a vibrant green gaze and a smile.

“No.  You’ve not been panting after him, but I _know_ you.  I know what you look like when you want.  I know him. What _he_ looks like when he wants.  Wants _you_.  Has done for some time.”

Q’s brow furrows.  “You’re not …”

“What?  Angry? _Please_.”  The top of Q’s curls are nuzzled and then his ear is being nipped at between words.  “He’s something of a force of nature. I gave up trying to not fall for James Bond about a decade ago.”  

“What are you trying to say to me?”

Words.  Horrid, awful things that neither of them is particularly good at.

Alec Trevelyan pulls back and reaches behind him.  He slips Q’s glasses onto his lover’s face, knowing he’ll want all his senses available to him now.  But Alec keeps a hand on Q’s bare hip, grounding them both in the moment.

“We’ve been talking, he and I … and well, I’ll let James speak for himself, but it’s not about a quick fuck and fumble for him.   _You_ , I mean.  Not any more than it is for me …”

It’s difficult for Alec to say.  As hard, perhaps, as it is for Q to hear.  They don’t do this. Sharing. Talking. They just _do_.  

Are.  

But Alec presses ahead in spite of it, and so -- hard as it is because ... _feelings_ \-- Q grows still in his embrace and listens.

“And, well, if you’re keen on the idea, maybe … we can … open things up to … the three of us.”

“A threesome?”  Q’s pretty sure that isn’t all, but there can be no room for confusion here.

Alec shakes his head.  “No. A … _us,_ us.”  His fingers make that flitting gesture he uses when addressing their ‘themness,’ their ‘relationship,’ “but for all three. Of us.”

Q doesn’t smile.  He wants to.

“What do _you_ want?”  Q knows that Alec and James’ friendship hasn’t always been platonic and ‘brotherly’ barely scratches the surface when attempting to define their connection.

“I … I miss him,” Alec finally admits.  And Q can see he has to drag that confession kicking and screaming out of whatever corner of his heart it’s been hiding in all these years.  “But, I don’t want to give you up. I want this. Too.”

Q pushes Alec onto his back and straddles his hips.  The look he gives his lover is pointed. Stern.

“What _else_?”  Q has always been able to tell when Alec is hedging.

“James is _here_.”  Alec’s response is immediate, to Q’s surprise.  “At least more than I am. He’s gone for days or weeks.  I can be out for months at a time, and when I am, you’re alone.”

“I am an adult.  The Quartermaster of MI-bloody-6, thank you, kindly.  I don’t need a _babysitter_.” Q stiffens and tries to leave the bed, but Alec’s grip on his hips stills him.

“No.  You need someone who is _here_ when the tension builds up and your head gets- _fuck_ , you were sodding _reckless_ tonight, Ethan.  And you know it. What if it’d not been me on that corner?  You need a lover who’s around. Someone to tend to you and for you to tend to, as well.  Someone who cares. And James does.”

While he spoke, Alec shifts his hold on Q’s body, sliding one arm up the centre of Q’s spine, his fingers tangling into the curls at the base of Q’s skull.  

It’s familiar.

Grounding.  A pillar of steel anchoring and supporting Q.  

So needed, even after the mind-clearing effects of the scene and the sex.

Alec is right, of course.  He’s never been so impetuous and foolhardy before, but then Q can’t honestly say the last time his head has grown so painfully, unreasonably full.

It would be complicated.  The three of them. Maybe impossible.  But James once praised Q over comms for doing six impossible things before breakfast and then had wondered aloud whether or not he could up that number if Q were naked instead of in his pyjamas with a cuppa in hand.

The Rake.

At the time, Q had refused to admit to his flush of pleasure at Bond’s unexpected compliment.  Or to the rush of desire he felt at the man’s wholly suggestive follow up.

In retrospect …

He concedes Alec’s point.

“What does he know about _this_?” Q asks then.  He presses his wrists together as if restrained by invisible bindings.

“Who do you think taught me?”

Well, that’s news …

Q thinks.  Alec pets.

A comfortable silence fills the small flat, until ...

“We’ll the three of us talk when he gets back tomorrow from Ontario,” Q says.

“He’s in the pub downstairs waiting for us,” Alec admits with a smile.  He pulls Q down to him and kisses him languidly. “Texted when he landed at Heathrow an hour ago,” he says against Q’s mouth when they part.

“Of _course_ he did,” Q mutters.  

Bloody Double-Os.  

He climbs off the bed and begins to hunt for his clothes.  

“Are you really okay with this?”  Alec asks from the bed once Q retrieves his cheerful socks from where they landed:  one sits at the base of the telly, the other hangs from the shade of the floor lamp next to the armchair.

Q’s answer is to turn and smile.  It’s the first honest, genuine smile Alec has seen cross his love’s face in far too long.

And it’s the only answer Alec needs.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you enjoyed this bit of fic. Please let me know if you did. Comments are love, and I could use all the love I can get right now.
> 
> Cheers!


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